


Te-Amser

by telemachus



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: Angst, Gen, missing scene - freeform, parenting, trying so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 14:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3900235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello Mum,” he says, as he stands there, this man, this man I – I do not know. </p>
<p>This man who is not my little boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Te-Amser

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the characters from the film, not on any real-life people who might happen to have the same names. (I've watched the film, and not attempted to find out more about these people. Because that would be Real-Person Fic, & I don't do that.)
> 
> Shouldn't need saying, but - any implied homophobia is character-driven, not my own.
> 
> .

“Hello Mum,” he says, as he stands there, this man, this man I – I do not know. 

This man who is not my little boy.

I look at him, the tired eyes, the worry, the thinness of him.

The tight jeans, the leather jacket – the garish bus – I am not going to think about the bus.

Instead, all I can think is – English?

The first words in – so many years – and you cannot even speak your own language anymore?  
Not even to me?

Perhaps especially not to me.

We both of us just – stand there.

I don’t know what he expects. 

This is Wales.   
Not Hollywood.

He gives a little shrug, and glances round, almost nervous, over his shoulder. 

“Not many changes,” he says, and it is my turn to shrug, but I do not. I stand there.

Hands in his pockets, I notice, scruffy and casual as ever.

He does that swift look over his shoulder again, and I wonder what he is looking for.  
Or who, I suppose.

He shrugs again, tight, hunched in on himself, and then,

“Mum?”

I don’t know what to say.

All the things I want to say – all the things I have thought to myself I should say – are gone. There was a time once, I wrote them all down. Thought maybe – maybe if – well, one day – he might read it.

Might understand.

Only – now – I don’t remember the words. In any language.

But he’s still – somewhere – my little boy.

Isn’t he?

Standing there in just a t-shirt and thin, open jacket, in the snow.

“Warmer inside,” I say, and turn, hoping he’ll follow, and then, because in a part of my mind he is still – six, perhaps – or twelve – or – any age, but my little boy, always hungry, “tea and cake, maybe?” 

You’ll catch your death out there, no gloves on you, is at the tip of my tongue. Then I remember, and I have to hold the table for a moment.

I can’t look at him.

He’s so thin, so tired.

Is that why he has come?

I’m not a fool, I hear the news, I know – enough – of how he must have been living to know he could be – dying.

My little boy.

And – for all it’s sin that brought it on him – there hasn’t been a night, a day, a moment, when somewhere in my mind, I haven’t been praying for him to be forgiven, for him to – to find his way back.

My little boy.

I busy myself with kettle, with teapot, with cups, and all the rest of it.

“Mum,” he says again, and – still English? What’s wrong with the language of your own home I wonder, but, “are you – I – I wanted – I – can you not even look at me?”

No.

Not without letting you see my tears.

I never cried in front of you.

I won’t start now.

“Have you news for me?” I ask, and it sounds harsh, it sounds – wrong. 

Stupid.

Sixteen years, of course there is news. Some kind of news. And to turn up like this – I don’t think it will be good news.

He sighs, and – and he sounds the same – if I don’t look at him – he sounds a teenager, digging for excuses. Only – tired.

I pour tea, add milk, sugar, and then as I stir – realise I don’t know if he still takes it like that.

My little boy.

And I don’t even know how he likes his tea.

But I know I can’t ask without crying.

I won’t let you see my tears.

Instead, I pass him the cup.

“Cup and saucer,” he says, “there’s nice.”

Somehow that makes it worse.

That he has become so used to – to some kind of slovenly – mugs, I suppose. 

“No news you want to hear,” he says, as I still don’t speak, can’t speak, “I – nothing’s changed. I just – someone said I should try – so I am. Talking to you. But I’m not coming back, I’m not praying, I’m not – going to change.”

I nod, still looking at my cup, and I can see he is still looking at his.

“What then?” I ask, and again – I know the words are wrong, harsh, but – I wasn’t expecting this today.

Any day.

He drinks, as though he doesn't have the words ready either.

“Just – it’s the first time I’ve been in Wales, and – and someone said – I should try.”

Someone.

“Does – someone – have a name?” I ask, old habits of correcting a child coming back to me – still my little boy – always – only – then I realise I probably don’t want to hear about this – someone.

“Hefina,” he says, and then laughs, “she isn’t – she’s just – friend of a friend. I – we – some friends – we raised money for the miners – came to south Wales – she – is that sort. Bossy. Village committee. You know the type.”

Yes.

All too well.

“Oh.” I say, and then – my little boy – still my little boy – I turn to the cupboard, and, “take your coat off indoors. You weren’t born in a barn. And cake. You’ll want cake.”

He almost laughs – that's good – I think that's good. He sounds like himself when he laughs. 

“Sixteen years, and – don’t you have questions? Don’t you want to know where I live? What I do? Anything?”

Still looking at the cupboard, I am honest,

“I don’t know. Do I? Want to know? I – Gethin – it might be best not. Not if we might – argue – again.”

Silence.

“I tried to look for you,” I say suddenly, “I tried. Only – I didn’t know how. You didn’t tell anyone where you were going. So – yes. Maybe it would be nice to – have an address for you. Something to know.”

“You looked?” and the surprise hurts more than anything, of course I looked, I think, you’re my little boy, of course I looked. But you aren’t – weren’t – a child. How could I find you if you didn’t want to be found? 

Why do you think I never dared move from this house?

“You looked,” he says again. I can hear the smile in his voice, and – and maybe this will be alright. Maybe we can make something right.

I sit next to him, not touching, not yet, but – watching him eat, and drink, and listening, and – once he starts I find he is still – in some ways – my little boy. He eats and he talks, slowly at first, but talking. I hear about London, and a bookshop, and friends, and – and doing alright, and – and a cat, and a flat above the shop, and – and perhaps this isn’t so bad. 

Maybe I don’t have to hear words I don’t know how to understand.

But – a flat – with a cat.

It sounds – lonely. 

Lonely as a remote cottage with a small boy.

As a remote cottage – with nothing but memories.

I know all about lonely.

“The bus,” I ask, because it seems rude not to, “no car in London, I suppose?” I can’t imagine my little boy driving in London. I can’t imagine my little boy driving that bus, but – I suppose he must have. He nods, mouth full still, and so – because I have no news of my own, and besides, what boy ever wanted to hear of his mother when he could boast of himself? – “it’s very bright. Is it – advertising?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” eyes shining, and then, “a theatre company. Jonathan borrowed –“

He stops.

Ah.

He never could lie. 

Had he kept talking – this Jonathan could have been simply a friend. One of many. But – the bright eyes, the blush – you would not think a man of his age would still blush, the way he must have lived, you would not think he still had shame in him.

I look down, and then take a breath. Forgive me, Lord, I think, but – I cannot lose my son again. “Jonathan?” I ask, “he is an actor?”

There is a nod.

Silent.

He looks – afraid.

My little boy.

Afraid.

Forgive me, Lord, but I cannot lose my son again.

“And – he – Jonathan – is he – special?”

He bites his lip, and then – yes. Very special. He keeps looking down, and trying to stop – and – hold back – and not – not tell me more than he need – but – he can’t. 

I don’t think I have ever seen my little boy so excited.

This – Jonathan – seems to be an actor. And tall, and blond, and funny, and clever, and kind, and wonderful, and – well. If half of his words are true, then – Jonathan is an extremely talented saint.

Nearly five years, he says.

Five years.

I don’t think about the other eleven. I won’t.

“You’re safe then,” I break in, and for the first time my voice is not under control, “Gethin bach, five years – that is long enough – surely – you must be – healthy.”

He looks down, and then meets my eye,

“I’m fine,” he says, “yes, mum. That isn’t why I’m here.”

I nod.

Thank you Lord. My little boy is safe.

He talks on, but I don’t understand it all, I can’t take it in.

It doesn't matter.

There will be time to hear it all again.

Please Lord, there will be time now.

I take his hand, and – he doesn't push me away. 

Not a teenager anymore.

Grown up. Answerable for his own actions.

As I am for mine. 

He knows what I think. I’ve told him. Paid the price. Sixteen years without my son, my little boy. If my words, if the silence between us wasn’t enough to make him listen – then maybe all that’s left to do now for him is pray.

So that’s what I’ll do.

Only – I won’t tell him – and I won’t pray for him to – to anything – only that he be forgiven – whatever needs forgiving. That he be happy, and perhaps find his way back to the Lord one day.

Just like he found his way back here.

Because – surely – if I can forgive and still love my little boy – surely the Lord can too.

**Author's Note:**

> According to google, Te-Amser is Welsh for tea-time. If not, I'm always glad to be corrected. But, despite what many people might think, its a long way from one end of Wales to the other, & it feels longer when you drive it. 
> 
> Again, as I understand it, bach, is a Welsh endearment or diminutive. 
> 
> Comments or constructive criticism very welcome. Watched this film five days ago, and can't stop thinking about it, the characters, and the spaces - hoping writing this will help!


End file.
